


The War Years

by eulersidentitycrisis



Series: Beth Harmon, World Traveler [1]
Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: (Depending on your definition), Accidental foreign exchange student Beth, Almost a Cold War spy story, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28356576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eulersidentitycrisis/pseuds/eulersidentitycrisis
Summary: After beating Borgov, Beth spends 5 days in Moscow.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Series: Beth Harmon, World Traveler [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124885
Comments: 27
Kudos: 146





	The War Years

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, many thanks to Tanya for her feedback and constant support and encouragement, without whom this fic would not exist (quite literally, as she introduced me to the show).
> 
> I'll also note that my first hand experiences with countries once in the Soviet sphere is limited to one week in Budapest as a child, when I got quite sick and spent most of the time trying to force down rice in our rented room. Which is to say, anything in this writing approaching verisimilitude is entirely thanks to the writing of historians, and a few second hand stories I've been lucky enough to be privy to. Anything which is not is entirely my own imagination.

Beth has been playing chess in Gorky Park for the better part of two hours when she spots him. She’s not sure how long he’s been there, but it can’t have been that long - he’s standing close enough not to look like he’s being deliberately stealthy, but far enough away that he’s not within normal speaking range. 

She lets herself catch his eye and is diverted from her game by the intensity of his stare, long enough that her opponent (a student a few years older than herself who, in their brief conversation as they started their game, told her he was studying chemistry) follows her eyes to where Borgov is standing. The student’s eyes widen with surprise and recognition, but she forces her gaze back to the board and moves her rook, bringing her opponent’s focus back to the game, and effectively precluding any conversation about the figure lurking 15 feet away.

She can’t imagine what would bring him here - she thinks back to when she’d lost to Benny not even two years ago in Las Vegas, and can’t imagine having purposefully sought him out after his victory. Her governing instinct then was to run as far as possible in the opposite direction. While she supposes that Borgov’s almost 30 years on her have given him more maturity, she can’t help but think they must also have made reminders of his own mortality more potent. 

Her curiosity about his presence would be a damaging distraction against a more practiced opponent, but she dispatches the student with relative ease, and he accepts his defeat with grace and a handshake paired with a smile. He strides away, and without the game to pin any of her attention, she chances a look back in Borgov’s direction, before coming to a resolution.

She’s strode across the distance between them and is standing in front of him before she realizes she has no clue what to say. The real question on her mind is, “Why are you here?,” but she fears, suddenly, that she might frighten him away.

“How did you know I was here?” she asks in Russian.

He gives a wry almost smile. “Maybe I just guessed.”

For a second, she allows herself to believe his words, and to think they share some innate similarity of mind. Perhaps he comes here too, just to play no-stakes chess games against people he’ll never see again.

But then she catches the irony tingeing his voice.

“Oh,” she says.

“Yes,” he all but drawls. “‘Oh.’ Did you really imagine, Beth Harmon, that there wouldn’t be parties interested in the very American world chess champion slipping her handler on the way to the airport, to go wander around Moscow?”

Hackles up, she replies, “And is that why you’re here? You were sent by an interested party?”

He shrugs. “No. They informed me where you were, but I have no idea as to whether they expected or intended me to follow after you.” He pauses, as though weighing he should reveal his next words, and when they come, they’re as deliberated as everything else he does. “I’m here because I was curious.”

“Yes, Vasily Borgov,” she says. “So am I.”

He gives her a piercing look, and apparently after several seconds he finds whatever it is he was looking for, because he nods and says, “Then come along.”

* * *

They find a tea room of sorts, though very different from the gold-trimmed ones Beth had walked past in Paris. They settle into their seats in the poorly lit room, and he pours her tea from a beautiful copper container he calls a samovar.

As she watches the tea flow into her cup, Beth, suddenly, has no idea what she’s doing there. They had barely talked on the walk over, and she can’t decide which seems more ridiculous to her - the idea of trying to make small talk with Borgov, or the idea of trying to talk about anything of substance with him.

Apparently, he has no compunctions about the latter, because after a moment of uncomfortable silence, he says, as though making a confession, “I heard about your mother after I left Mexico City. I just, I suppose, that I wanted to say that I am sorry.”

Whatever she would have expected, it wasn’t that. She’s too taken aback to do much other than stare, but after a pause, he continues. “I know it’s not the same as a parent. But my older sister, well. My family is from Moscow, but she married a man in Leningrad, before the war.”

He says this as though it ought to bear great significance, but Beth is not sure what it is. “What happened?” she asks.

He looks surprised for a second, perhaps at having to explain, but recovers and says, matter of factly, “She still lived there, when the Germans laid siege to it. She starved.”

Beth, uncomfortable enough with her own grief, is even more discomfited by that of others and manages to offer only, “I’m sorry.” And then, for lack of anything else to say, and as though the turn of the conversation is not awkward enough, follows it up with, “Did you fight in the war, then?”

“Yes,” he replies. “We all did. I wasn’t in Leningrad or Stalingrad, to be sure, but I was under Zhukov when we pushed the Nazis out of Poland.” He pauses, then, more softly adds, “Our countries fought on the same side, then. And I can’t speak for your country, but at least here, there was real hope that things could have stayed that way.”

Almost teasingly, she answers, “I wouldn’t have taken you for such an idealist. Don’t you think the ideological differences between our governments made the division inevitable?”

“It didn’t during the war, though our governments were no more similar then. And I think most people in every country are just trying to survive.”

She thinks of the Christian Crusade, handing back their letter, and thinks he’s probably right. Not ready to concede though, she tries a new line of attack.

“But as the two most powerful countries after the war, clearly we were going to be adversaries. Just like you and me - on a collision course in every tournament we’ve played.”

“That’s true,” he says. “But here we are now, no?”

* * *

She arrives back at the hotel, strangely in a daze, confused yet invigorated. She’s secured Borgov’s promise to show her around Red Square the next day (her request, his capitulation). She has no clue why he’s taken on the role of unofficial Moscow tour guide to the girl who beat him at chess, or at least she hopes she has no clue. The niggling idea in the back of her brain that _interested parties_ might be more involved than he let on refuses to leave her alone, but she thinks that either way, there’s no harm in it. It’s an adventure, and an excuse to practice her Russian. 

She’s never been more glad she devoted herself to learning the language. She never strictly needed it for chess - her Russian is much better than Borgov’s English, and that’s never stopped him from success at international tournaments. But she feels, for the first time, that she is truly coming to know a place she’s visited, beyond the cocoon of glitzy hotels, bars, and over-priced restaurants. 

It doesn’t even occur to her, until she slides open her hotel room door to find her “State Department” escort (she will not think of him as her “handler,” no matter what Borgov says) pacing the room, that she might be in trouble with her own _interested parties_ for her excursion.

“I thought you’d gone back to America,” is the first thing she says, and she wants to kick herself for the foolishness of it.

He does not look amused. “You didn’t go back to America, and so I couldn’t either. Do you have any idea the problems your display caused? I had no idea where you were for five hours! When all you’ve seen of Moscow is chess tournaments and an upscale hotel, you might think there’s no danger here, that this has all the consequence of a chess game, but you have no clue, do you?”

Getting into a fight with the government representative assigned to keep her safe is not exactly the most dignified or intelligent thing Beth has ever done (though, to be fair, nor is it the least), but she can’t bite back her fiery reply. “Do _you_ have no clue that it’s _because_ I haven’t left ‘chess tournaments and upscale hotels’ that I wanted to see what lies outside those walls? That I wanted to _get_ a clue?”

The agent seems to take a second to maintain his hold on his composure, then speaks. “Well, at least you’ve gotten it out of your system, and you seem to be none the worse for wear. We’ve rescheduled the flight to tomorrow at noon, the car will be ready to leave at 10:30.”

“Oh no,” she says, deadpan. “That definitely won’t do. I have an appointment with Vasily Borgov to see Red Square, and I’m afraid I can’t miss it. We’ll just have to reschedule.”

The second the words are out of her mouth, she half wants to claw them back. She can already hear the scolding that’s soon to follow - for her tone, for not reporting immediately that Borgov had given her “a signal” (though what sort of signal it is, she still hasn’t the foggiest), for presuming that they will stay in Moscow another day. Not to mention the interrogation she’s certain to be subject to on every word that passed between her and Borgov. But none of it comes.

He doesn’t speak for what feels to Beth like ages, and she watches his stony expression and tries to imagine what emotions might be flitting across the face of a less schooled man. Surprise, certainly. Confusion, very likely. Intrigue? Anger? Pride? Pride in her? When he speaks, his intonation betrays none of them, but his message is clear. “Okay, then. We’ll stay. Let me know if you need anything.”

And he nods to her, turns on his heel, and leaves.

 _Oh_ , she thinks. _Oh, fuck_.

* * *

The next afternoon finds Beth in Red Square, scanning the people pushing by, looking for Borgov. In the cold weather, his black coat doesn’t exactly make him stand out, but there’s something distinctive in his bearing that she identifies almost immediately, and scurries over to meet him.

They fall into step with each other, and walk in the direction of the Kremlin building. She recognizes the iconic spiraled turrets immediately, and has a moment to appreciate the feeling of being like any other tourist. As they walk, he tells her about the history of the buildings, stretching back to Ivan the Terrible, and talks about the parade down where they walk, every year on May Day.

It suddenly strikes her that she is somehow out of order, seeing the Soviet house of government before she has seen her own, and she remarks on this to Borgov.

“I’m sure you’ll see it soon enough,” he replies. “Everyone on earth wants to shake your hand, I can’t imagine the President is any different.”

She allows herself a moment to bask in the glow of the implied compliment, before telling him about the press junket with the President that seems to have already been arranged for her. “I can’t imagine it will be a very interesting game of chess, though, with President Johnson,” she comments.

“No,” he says, in his wry manner that she’s somehow already gotten used to. “But I imagine it might have other benefits.”

She pulls her shoulders into a delicate shrug. “Well yes, as it’s an excuse to buy a nice dress. But I think I would be more excited if I expected a better chess game.”

He rewards her with a real smile then, and then gestures to where they’ve found themselves - Lenin’s Mausoleum. “Do you want to go in? In the interest of your further indoctrination?”

She nods, and follows him through the line, and then into the semi-darkness. “Doesn’t it seem a bit morbid?” she asks. “I can’t imagine wanting to have my body preserved like that, especially to be looked on by spectators.”

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “We all have an eye on immortality though, don’t we? Isn’t that part of the attraction of chess, at least at our level? Etching your name into the history books? It’s not literally the same, of course. But then again, present company excluded, I’m not sure chess players usually make as good of symbols as ‘Comrade Lenin.’”

“I guess I can relate to that. But who other than people like us reads history books about chess players? The motivation has to be something else. For me, first, curiosity. Then, I’m not sure. Sitting in front of a chess board, most of the time, is the only place things make sense.”

“But seeking that sensation doesn’t require you to need to be the best. That has to be something else.”

She’s sure, in a few minutes, the enormity of what she’s revealing about herself will crash over her, and she’ll look back on this conversation with something like regret. But in the moment, there’s something terribly freeing about trying to dissect herself like this, even (and, she fears to admit to herself, perhaps especially) if spurred by Borgov’s guidance.

“It’s about control, I suppose. That if there was nothing else in my life I had dominion over, at least I could control my own moves, and my own victory. And I had to, have to, win to, well, exert that control.”

“Ah, good.”

“And why is that good?”

“Because that sort of motivation, it doesn’t go away with winning once. That’s what can keep you from getting bored, or burning out and going mad at 22.”

If it’s a complement, it’s something of a twisted one. But she’ll take it all the same. And given what she’s just laid before him, she can’t help some impertinence, to find her own feet beneath her, if nothing else. “And what about you?”

“I play to prove the superiority of the Soviet system, of course,” he replies, but she’s gotten used enough in the last 24 hours to the dryness of his humor to spot the rejoinder for what it is. He pauses. “I don’t think my motivation is that different from yours, in the end. Perhaps I play because I don’t know how to do anything else.”

The comment falls into the deadness of the air, and they speak no more as they leave the tomb. Then, “Come, Beth Harmon. Let’s go find dinner.”

* * *

As they settle into the restaurant, which reminds Beth a bit of diners, or even school cafeterias, back home, she admits to him that she couldn’t claim a great affinity for the variety of dishes served at the banquet before the tournament.

“Yes, in my experience most Westerners share your views about our cuisine. You might find the Chicken Kiev more to your liking. Though,” he adds, almost as though sharing a secret. “I personally feel borscht is sadly underrated.”

Perhaps it’s the surreality of the scene - the casual conversation with the man she’s spent years building up as an unwavering phantom opponent in her games, but she suddenly feels as though she’s watching a picture come into focus. She watches the fuzziness of the split second of a conspiratorial half smile on his face as he speaks and the fuzziness of the potential energy of his fingers at rest upon the restaurant table coalesce into the clarity of the warmth coiling in the bottom of her stomach and realizes. She _wants_ him.

 _Oh_ , she thinks, for the second time in as many days. _Oh, fuck._

But Beth is not as guileless as she once was (as she was even a day ago), and she knows it’s not entirely impossible that her desire is returned. It would, at least, be a plausible explanation for his behavior the last two days, and an explanation she much prefers to the alternative one she’s been turning over in her head.

But then again, he is married. And there are an uncountably infinite number of potential reasons for his behavior, even if she hasn’t scrounged up what most of them are. He could see himself in her (he likely does), and just want to give her a helping hand. He could pity her. He could be seeking to distract her, to gain an edge for the next time they play. He could, he could…

If Borgov notices her state of mental disarray (and he almost certainly does, she suspects that very little gets past him), he’s polite enough not to mention it, and he seems unbothered by her comparative silence. 

By the time they’re stepping out the restaurant, she’s come to a resolution. Her implicit goal, ever since she threw open the door of the car on the way to the airport, has been to let her curiosity take her where it wants her to go. To live, for a few moments, without what-ifs or regrets. The worst that can happen, she supposes, is if he kindly turns her down (and she knows, somehow now, that he would be kind), that their next meeting over a chess board will be a tad more embarrassing. But if he doesn’t . . . 

So she squares her shoulders, and turns to him, weighing her words. She thinks any sort of feint, an “I’m not sure the way back to my hotel,” or an “I’m feeling too tired to walk back,” is out - he’d see through it anyway, and her directness has always been on her calling card. She think it is the same for him.

So she asks, her words ghosting into clouds in the Moscow air, “Come back to the hotel with me?”

He studies her, his face as inscrutable as it’s been since they faced each other with 64 squares between them, his eyes scanning her face as though trying to determine her next move, as though he’s calculating every potential response. And finally, “Okay,” he says.

* * *

She wonders, fleetingly, if they ought to at least make some sort of attempt at subterfuge. But he strides alongside her into the lobby, into the elevator, down the hall to her room, standing patiently behind her as she fumbles with the keys. ( _Perhaps_ , she ponders, _there’s no need for subterfuge when you’re certain you’ll be found out either way_.)

But he waits until the door is firmly closed behind him to kiss her, and when he does, she’s taken by the _tenderness_ of it, his hand tracing the shape of her face and then curling gently around the back of her neck. She presses her body up against his, her mouth up against his, and deepens the kiss, only for him to pull back slightly, his hand moving down to rest on her upper back. 

“Beth, you don’t have to,” he pauses. Unusually for him, he’s speaking in English, and seems to be looking for the right words. “Go so fast,” he continues. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

She’s not sure if she’s more surprised by his use of her first name, or the actual content of the words, but she nods her understanding, and he leans back down to kiss her again, with more of those infuriating, long, lingering kisses. 

She’s not sure how long they stand there by the doorway fully dressed, trading kisses that slowly build and edge their way into desperate, before she divests him of his long, black coat and he, with a look in his eyes she can’t identify but understands nonetheless, does the same to her, and she takes his hand and leads him to the bed.

* * *

As she comes down, breathing heavily, and pillows her head against his chest, she can’t help but think, unexpectedly and with a slight twinge of pain, of Benny. She thinks that perhaps, if Vasily Borgov speaks of chess moves in this moment, she may kill him.

After a minute, he disentangles himself from her and stands, and she realizes that there may in fact be a worse sin to commit in such a moment than speaking of chess. But he doesn’t leave, only walks to where she’s tossed his coat over a chair. He withdraws from a pocket a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and, returning to the bed, lights one and takes a drag before offering it to her.

It’s the casual yet overwhelming intimacy of sharing a cigarette after sex that compels her next words. “Vasily,” she asks, echoing his own familiarity with her earlier. “How did you learn to play chess?”

He smiles for a second, whether at her use of his given name, the question, or both, she’s not sure. 

“My father taught me,” he says, almost cautiously, as though worried that the mere mention of fathers in front of her might be insensitive. 

She wants to press him for details, but instead offers in response, “Mr. Shaibel taught me. The janitor at the orphanage where I was raised. I used to watch him play against himself, and wore him down until he’d show me. I always tell the newspapers that, but it never winds up in the glossy pages in print. I guess it’s never a part of the story they walk in the room planning to write.”

“See,” he says, sardonically. “Perhaps our countries are not so very different as you think.”

They laugh lightly, and he guides her head back to lay on his chest, before twining his fingers in her hair until they fall asleep.

* * *

In the morning, they order room service. The hotel, used to catering to a Western audience, offers food Beth finds more familiar, and Vasily indulges her with ordering eggs and waffles. 

She’s gotten room service before, of course, but something about the scene feels terribly luxurious. They manage to make it to the table to eat, still half-dressed. Beth thinks she expected more guilt on Borgov’s part over the whole affair, but if he’s caught in any sort of self-reflective spiral, he certainly doesn’t show it.

“Where do you want to explore today?” he asks.

She’s almost certain he doesn’t mean it as an innuendo, but she can’t help but allow herself to turn it into one. “Maybe just this room,” she says cheekily. “I think there’s plenty to explore in here.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, and she suddenly feels as though she is a kitten chasing yarn who is pretending to be a cat chasing a mouse. But then he gives her a smile she thinks might even be fond, and says, “Okay, Beth Harmon. We can stay in.”

So they do. After breakfast, they more or less don’t leave the bed. Eventually, they end up wrapped in sheets, playing lazy games of chess. 

Beth finds it funny, the way the intensity that had marked all their previous games transmutes so naturally into intensity of a different kind. He still stares intently at her across the board, but she understands his stare quite differently now, and she’s not sure if the look of desire in his eyes is new, or if it was there all along and she is only now able to discern it.

As they play, they talk. Vasily comes up with the idea to replay their previous games, each playing the other’s moves. Beth is surprised by this on any number of levels, not the least of which is the competitive advantage it seems to give away. But they start playing through the games, and much to Beth’s chagrin, they find themselves in Paris.

He’s as off kilter as she is, as they set up their pieces for the game, and she remembers the bewildered softness on his face as a single tear slid down her face as he beat her. She thinks she’d do anything to banish the awkwardness that looms over them, and so she offers, “You can ask, you know.”

He looks taken aback, but takes the proffered opening. “Okay, I’ll ask. What happened?”

She’s not entirely sure she actually expected him to take her up on the offer, and she’s not sure she’s ready. But she takes a deep breath, and plows ahead, his eyes never leaving hers. 

“I’d been fine for a bit, you know, even with what happened with my mother. Well, I’m not sure if fine, exactly, is the right word. I’m not sure I’m ever really fine, but I hadn’t been drinking, anyway. And then the night before our match, a friend showed up at the bar downstairs. Well, a friend of a friend. And she convinced me to come down and drink with her. I said just one, but before I knew it I was waking up in a bathtub half an hour late.”

He looks very angry, suddenly. She’s worried that she’s just irrevocably damaged all respect he had had for her, but he had to have known before, hadn't he? What she was?

“Didn’t she know you had a game the next day?” he asks.

“Of course, I told her that. But she said she wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it the next day. I was nervous, I think. I just wanted the excuse, and she provided it.”

If anything, he looks angrier. She wants to ask him to explain, even as she fears the answer, but then he says, almost stonily, “I prefer to win and lose on my own merits.”

“But you did,” she cries. “You aren’t a drunk, I am, so you won. It’s my own weakness, and it has to be counted as part of my merits or demerits.”

He looks at her, and understanding dawns on his face. “Beth,” he says. “I’m not mad at _you_. It is a weakness, to be sure. But that’s not what I meant.”

“But who are you mad at then, Cleo? It’s not her fault I was willing.”

He glances around the room cautiously, and brings his head closer to her so that when he speaks it is in a very slight whisper. “Yes, among others. But you ought to be careful, Beth. The thing about weaknesses is, they can be exploited.” He sees her widening eyes, and fear, and pulls back, then reaches over to cover her hand. “But I know how hard you’re trying. And clearly, it’s paid off.”

“I know. But it’s just for now, it doesn’t go away. And I know at some point I’ll slip again.”

He looks at her, trying to formulate a response. “I know it’s not the same thing. But it reminds me of chess, a bit. You know, sometimes when I’ve won a number of games in a row, it’s easy for me to start to feel like I’ll never lose again. But I will, inevitably.” He gives a half-smile and gestures to her. “And I can’t ever let myself think that means I’ve lost my edge, or I need to stop. I have to just keep playing again.”

“Okay,” she says. “Then let’s play.”

He smiles at her then for real, and opens with his pawn, and though it’s an echo of their game in that Parisian hotel, it feels a very distant one.

* * *

The room is darkening, and Beth is about to suggest they go for another round of room service as dinner, when Vasily gives her a reluctant look, then abruptly stands. “I have to go,” he says.

“Of course,” she replies stupidly, and there it is - she feels the sudden lightening strike of guilt she’s been evading this whole time, and wonders how he’s even been able to be here this whole time. She wonders, distantly, how an upscale hotel room in Moscow compares to Denver, Colorado. “Are you . . . is everything going to be okay?” she asks, timidly.

He turns back to her, interrupted in the midst of gathering the remainder of his clothes and slipping into the persona the world knows him as. “Oh, Beth, of course. I should have . . . Well, I . . .”

He trails off, then takes a moment to collect himself, looking for the words, and comes to sit beside her on the bed. “My wife has always known that she is my second love. And since she always had to share me with chess, it wasn’t fair that I ask of her . . .” He trails off again, then makes another attempt. “We love each other, in our way. And we certainly both love our son. But when she asks where I’ve been the last day, while I certainly won’t give her any specifics, I won’t lie to her either.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes and leans over to kiss her forehead. Then he crosses the room to her desk, and plucks up the hotel pen and pad of paper, and writes a cross street, in the commercial part of the city. He flashes the writing up to her. “Meet me here tomorrow? At 11?”

She wants, very badly, for him to leave with a note of levity, rather than the sobriety of their last conversation. “What if I have other plans?” she drawls.

“Then I will be desperately disappointed,” he replies. His voice betrays no inflection, but she knows he means it all the same.

“Okay. Then I guess I’ll have to come.”

“Good,” he says, and giving her one last quirk of his lips, he pulls on his coat and leaves.

She returns her focus to the chess board still on the bed, pieces tragically scattered carelessly and forgotten after the conclusion of their last game. She pulls the board towards her, and begins collecting the pieces.

* * *

In the morning, bleary-eyed, Beth makes her way down to the lobby and into the dining room for breakfast. She doesn’t have much time before she’s supposed to meet Borgov, and is laser-fixed on a plate of muffins which she plans to grab one of and leave, when she stops, suddenly, upon realizing that her government escort is seated at one of the tables, with a full serving of breakfast, which he seems to be very slowly picking his way through. When he sees Beth, he crooks his fingers at her, beckoning her over.

Caught, she seats herself across from him, adopting a haughty look as he summons the waiter for her to order. She waives him off, and the waiter leaves them alone.

His voice is low, but he doesn’t lean in, his posture all one of casual conversation. “Have you made any progress?”

It’s not as though Beth wasn’t expecting this once he’d called her to his table. But she _is_ known for her tactical prowess, so she stalls. “Is this really the best place to be discussing this?” she asks.

“Well,” he replies, as though explaining the alphabet to an infant. “Your room is bugged. It’s unlikely this particular table is, and we’re seated too far for anyone to hear us. Some nondescript outside location would be preferable, but I thought my chances of this conversation actually happening were much better here.”

“Yes,” she says pointedly, giving him a significant glance. “I understand. It is deeply troubling when governments insist on keeping track of my every move.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, and just presses on. “So, now that we’ve established the venue questions, perhaps you could answer mine. _Have_ you made any progress?”

Clearly, stalling isn’t working, so she tries ignorance instead. “I’m, uh, not sure what you mean. I think you may have had a very different idea of my purpose in being here than I did.”

He shakes his head. “Well, at least give me this. Tell me Borgov won’t be reporting to his people that _he’s_ making progress.”

She wants to tell him it’s not like that. But she knows he won’t believe her anyway, so she gives him what he wants. “No, of course not. But I think this conversation is at an end.”

She turns on her heel and storms away, and doesn’t remember until she’s out the front doors of the hotel that she didn’t even get to eat anything.

She hails a taxi to the cross streets Vasily had given her the day before, and stews in the car all the way there, the combination of hunger and the confrontation she’d just dealt with not helping her mood. 

When she gets out of the car, Vasily is there waiting for her, and immediately looks at her face, taking in her expression. “What happened?” he asks.

“Sorry I’m late,” she replies. “I got caught up in a, uh, conversation at the hotel.”

“From the look on your face, I’m guessing it wasn’t someone wanting an autograph.”

“No,” she says dryly. “My good friend from Washington is upset at my unwillingness to play James Bond.”

He looks startled by her words, and before he can think better of it, confesses, “Really? I admit that I had considered the possibility that . . . Well, it doesn’t matter.”

She knows, of course, what he had considered. She doubts she would have three days ago, but she knows better now. But, in some masochistic impulse (and perhaps sadistic as well, as she knows it will hurt the both of them), she wants to make him say it anyway. “No, what did you consider?”

Whether he knows the game she’s playing or not, he doesn’t let on, but fixes her with the solidity of his stare. “Beth, you are very young, and very beautiful. And I am neither of those things. Is it not natural that I would wonder about your motivations?”

It is, of course. In her weaker moments she has wondered the same about him. And yet, “Then why did you go along with it?”

“I _am_ only human. You’re not the only one with weaknesses that can be exploited.”

“And your weakness is women?” she guesses.

The stare is back, as he says cautiously, “Not as a general rule, no.”

The words fall awkwardly into the space between them, and she’s not sure what to say. She’s not sure she can offer anything of equal magnitude in this moment - because of the enormity of it, not because it would be untrue. They stand in the middle of the busy Moscow street, looking at each other, until her stomach rumbles. As embarrassing as it would be in any other moment, she is very grateful for anything to change the subject.

He must feel the same way she does, because he grasps the new topic like it’s a life line. “Are you hungry? Did you not eat?”

She gives a half-grin, her own attempted replica of his usual smile. “My breakfast was . . . interrupted, so no, I haven’t eaten.”

He nods. “There’s an ice cream stand a block that way, if you want?”

“Ice cream?” she asks, incredulously. “For breakfast?”

“Well, Beth Harmon, I know you want the real Moscow experience. And people here will wait in long lines in winter for ice cream. So I don’t think having it for breakfast is out of the realm of possibility. At least we probably won’t have to wait in line.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “Ice cream for breakfast it is then.”

* * *

After they eat their ice cream (and Beth is forced to admit, it is really good ice cream. She thinks she can understand waiting in long lines for it, even in winter), they wind up in a bookstore. 

He pulls a hefty book off a shelf, and hands it to her. “Here,” he says. “This will help you practice your Russian.”

She looks at the title. “ _Anna Karenina_?” she asks.

The look on his face is almost wistful. “Tolstoy was like a rite of passage for us, growing up. You marked becoming an adult, or a real teenager at least, by when you finished _War and Peace_.”

“They didn’t make you read Marx?” she asks.

He laughs. “Do they make you read Adam Smith? I mean sure, we all had to read Marx and Lenin, but really, Marx was for our parents’ generation. By the time they got to us, the passion of the revolution was long gone. And so Tolstoy was for ours. I liked _War and Peace_ well enough, but it was _Anna Karenina_ that really stuck with me. ‘All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ What an opening line.”

“And which was yours, growing up?” she asks. She supposes pretending the normal boundaries to topics of conversation still stand between them is an exercise in futility.

“My family?” She nods her confirmation, and he takes the impertinence of the question in stride. “Happy enough, I suppose. My parents were both in the party very early on. My father was, well, is, as he’s still alive, an Old Bolshevik, and ended up working in the party bureaucracy. We never lived in the House on the Embankment or anything, he was never that high up. I think he resented that, not achieving the success of most of his comrades, but in the end, it turned out to be a good thing. One can fly too close to the sun.”

She nods, and before she can formulate how to respond, he plucks the book out of her hands. “Let me buy this for you.”

She’s about to protest that she can afford to buy it herself, but it strikes her that she rather likes the idea of tucking something from him away in her suitcase, and something to tie her to this moment when she leaves. “Okay,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he says. “I know you were about to resist.”

As they reach the counter to pay, he snatches up one more item, and shows it to her. An atlas, which he claims is, “In service of her insatiable curiosity.”

She can’t really argue with him there. They spend the rest of the afternoon meandering in the shopping district, and Vasily is relentlessly patient, even as Beth decides she wants to explore the corner grocery store, just to see how it compares to America. 

They end up at a restaurant similar to the one they’d eaten at two nights before. Vasily convinces Beth to give the borscht another shot, but she admits she enjoys it just as much as she had before, which is to say not much at all. She finds the blinis much to her liking though, and Vasily tells her fondly of his mom trying to teach him how to make them growing up.

As they end the meal and leave the restaurant, Beth feels a remarkable sense of _deja vu_. But she feels more confident this time, as they stand side by side outside the restaurant, and she asks, “Are you coming back to the hotel?”

He doesn’t answer verbally, but smiles down at her and entwines his fingers with hers, and uses his other hand to hail a cab.

* * *

When they wake up in the morning, Beth convinces him that they should go find breakfast at a nearby café, partly out of desire for the experience, and partly because she doesn’t want to chance who she might run into at the hotel. He agrees, and they walk a couple blocks over. They don’t hold hands, but Beth, feeling slightly like she’s being a bit mawkish, lets her shoulder brush up against his as they walk, and he seems not to mind.

She’s in high spirits as they enter the restaurant, when she catches upon something odd. She’s nearly certain the man who walks in the restaurant behind them has been walking behind them the entire walk from the hotel. And she supposes it could be a coincidence. Perhaps. But maybe the atmosphere is making her paranoid, but it seems like it would be an awfully odd coincidence.

So once she and Borgov are seated, she gestures minutely towards the man, and says, lowly, “I think we might be being followed.”

He does not look the least surprised. “Very likely. Do you think he’s yours or mine?”

His, probably. The man seems very at home, here. Though she supposes the best American spies probably know how to look at home here too. “I don’t know,” she asks. “What do you think he wants?”

“Just keeping tabs, I imagine,” he answers. “It’s not like we’ve been particularly discrete, and I’m sure both of our people want to make sure they’re in control.”

He’s so incredibly _blasé_ about it. She supposes it’s not that unusual for him, but to her, the idea of being _used_ to this kind of thing is terrifying. Perhaps she’ll have to get used to it no matter what. Given the way she’s behaved on this trip she doubts her government will be unsuspicious of her. But it suddenly feels crushing. 

She’s gotten used to eyes on her, from the media, and even from fans. But she’s always been made for the direct, the overt, and the covertness of the world she’s accidentally dipped a toe into is suddenly dawning on her.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, as their coffee comes, and Vasily looks at her with increasing concern. Finally, he asks if she’s okay.

Though she’s trying to keep calm, her voice has more than a note of panic in it when she replies. “I don’t know. I, uh, I think I need to leave. Moscow, that is. I don’t know how much more patience my government escort, or my government, has for me, and if I stay much longer, I’m worried. I’m worried I’ll end up too deep, and I’ve already raised eyebrows back home more than I should, and -”

“Beth,” he says sadly, covering her hands with his. “I know. It’s okay.”

She feels, all at once, boneless with relief, both at the acceptance in his words and the sadness with which he says them, and she flops back in her chair, her last doubts about him finally extinguished.

“Thank you,” she replies. The words feel insignificant, but they’re real.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“You know there is. These past few days, well, you can’t imagine what they’ve meant to me. Just to be able to explore, to choose for myself and not feel like I’m always choosing wrong.”

“I’m gratified,” he says. “That I could be part of that in any way. But you must know, it’s not something I gave to you. It’s something you’ve found for yourself.”

She nods, and thinks with some embarrassment that if she speaks, she may cry. But she chokes down her tears, and asks, “We can’t . . . be like this, together, again, when we meet in the future, can we?” 

Because she knows they will meet again. She imagines sitting across from him again at a chess board, with his impassive eyes, pretending they haven’t shared kisses and secrets and fears, and that’s the end of her control. Just as in Paris, he watches as a single tear rolls down her cheek.

But this time, he takes her hands back in his, and rubs circles against them with his thumb, soothing her. “No,” he admits. “You’re right. It would be . . . inadvisable for a number of reasons. But I hope you know, I will _always_ care for you.” 

She nods her head and they stay like that, taking comfort in each other’s presence, until Beth uses their joined hands to pull him and herself up. Perhaps it will hurt more later, but she can’t help it. “Come back with me,” she asks. “One more time.”

If she expected contemplation or indecision on his part, she receives none. He nods immediately, and lets go of one of her hands, leaving the other still grasped in his. “Let’s go,” he says.

* * *

The second they are back inside her hotel room, he kisses her feverishly. From the desperation in the way he clutches at her, she knows this time he will not be breaking from her to say they can go slower. 

As they drag each other to the bed, Beth is taken by how much she has learned of him, in the past five days. How she knows, now, exactly where to place her mouth against his skin, so that he will press her to him that much closer, and he calls out her name and the name of a god neither of them believe in. 

She knows that the gentlest gestures, tucking his hair behind his ear as he pulls away to gaze at her, drive him crazy, driving his lips back to hers. 

And she knows that she must commit every inch of him, every moment, to memory, and in that way this time will always be with her somewhere.

When it is over, they lay together, him stroking her hair, just as he did that first night. She suddenly wishes, terribly, that he would leave. Every second he stays, she thinks, it will be harder for her for him to go.

Finally, he pulls away and slides out of bed. He collects his clothes and dresses himself, his eyes never straying far from where she is entangled by sheets. When he’s fully dressed, he comes back to her.

He kisses her once, tenderly, now, as though they’ve drained all their desperation. “Beth,” he whispers. “Be happy. Promise me.”

She nods, vigorously, and he kisses her on the forehead, then is gone.

She spreads her arms across the bed and stays there, feeling the rise and fall of her own chest against the mattress, until the lump in her throat dissipates.

Then, she pulls herself from the bed, throws on her underwear and a shirt, and sits down at her desk. She sits for a minute, then sweeps aside a half-finished game from the night before, and picks up the phone, asking the operator to connect her to her government escort’s room. 

He picks up the phone with a brusque, “Yes?” 

“It’s Beth,” she says. “I think I’m ready to leave.”

Despite the fact that his pretensions at a grander plan for Borgov have clearly been foiled, there is palpable relief in his voice. “I can arrange a plane for later tonight, probably. Or at the latest tomorrow morning.” There is something almost soft in his voice when he asks, “Is that alright?”

“Yes,” she replies, betraying as much emotion as he usually does. “That’s fine.”

“Good. And flying into Lexington, right?”

She pauses. 

She thinks, briefly, of New York, but she’s not sure she can face Benny quite yet. She knows that he won’t wait forever, but, he will, she hopes, grant her a little longer.

Then her eyes catch on the atlas Vasily had bought for her yesterday, at the little bookstore. She seizes it, closes her eyes, flips to a page, and points.


End file.
